


Like flowers blooming

by NohaIjiachi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Other, Pining, it's a pine forest out there y'all, kink meme prompt, role reversed pining, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 07:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NohaIjiachi/pseuds/NohaIjiachi
Summary: It could not be happening. This could not be happening. Aziraphale was already walking on very thin ice, he knew. He failed his guarding duty, allowing Adam and Eve to bite the Apple. He gave them his God-given sword, and lied to Her face about it. He actually spoke with the Demon responsible for it, the Original Tempter, the Serpent of Eden—And he fell in love with him.“No no no—“ Aziraphale whined, turning to heavily rest against the wooden banister, sliding in a sit and causing his drenched feathers to go vaguely askew as he did so.He knew what that feeling meant. There was an empty place in his chest, now, right beside the one filled by Her Grace. It was there, and he didn’t want it, he didn’t ask for it, but it was there.Oh, if anyone in Heaven found out— If they only caught even a single whiff of this…Aziraphale gulped around a knot in his throat, the floating in his stomach churning and turning into nausea. If anyone found out how he felt about Crawly, now— In the best of cases, he’d Fall.In the worst— He did not even want to think about it.





	Like flowers blooming

**Author's Note:**

> [Fill for this prompt on the kinkmeme!](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=715880#cmt715880) Finally went around to correct some stuff before posting on AO3 as well lol.
> 
> I did some more fills so there will be more one shots in the future : D

‘Oh.’

It was all Aziraphale could think, hidden in the shadows and the creaks of the ark swaying in the storm. He’d been told of noises coming from the lower levels, and Noah’s family had been too busy tending to the animals, so he went.

There were children. At least twenty, if not more. Most were asleep, their little faces scrunched in a way that suggested they’d only recently stopped crying, but those who weren’t were pressing themselves against the only individual taller than a meter, hunched down between the wooden beams, arms protectively holding as many kids near him as he could, the rest covered gently under black wings.

The song was sweet and sorrowful, sung in a language that, Aziraphale had been told, Demons were not supposed to be able to speak anymore, after the Fall. The kids could not understand the meaning, not with their ears, but their young, innocent souls did, allowing them a measure of peace.

Aziraphale stood in the shadows and felt something inside the chest of his corporation move, and squirm, and grow hot. He felt deep down in his _real_ body the impossible warmth of love, the kind of love he’d reserved for Her and only Her, suddenly grow a second spot right beside the one for God.

And Aziraphale knew he was, to use an expression that wouldn’t be common language for long, long centuries, very much _fucked_.

He turned around and walked as fast as he dared to while not making a sound. The animals in the higher levels were already going agitated, having been hit by the full blast of the love Aziraphale felt bloom in the very core of his essence. He ran on the upper deck, wings spread, and let himself get soaked to the bone as he attempted to reign the short, panicked breaths his corporation annoyingly demanded.

“Oh, oh no, please—“ he begged to no one, eyes scrunched, hands pressed on his chest. He could feel his human heart beating like a drum, unstoppable, and something float in his stomach, heavy and light at the same time. His entire torso _hurt_, every breath stinging like knives between one’s ribs, and his eyes prickled with tears under his closed eyelids.

It could not be happening. This could not be happening. Aziraphale was already walking on very thin ice, he knew. He failed his guarding duty, allowing Adam and Eve to bite the Apple. He gave them his God-given sword, and lied to Her face about it. He actually _spoke_ with the Demon responsible for it, the Original Tempter, the Serpent of Eden—

And he fell in love with him.

“No no _no_—“ Aziraphale whined, turning to heavily rest against the wooden banister, sliding in a sit and causing his drenched feathers to go vaguely askew as he did so.

He knew what that feeling meant. There was an empty place in his chest, now, right beside the one filled by Her Grace. It was there, and he didn’t want it, he didn’t ask for it, but_ it was there_.

Oh, if anyone in Heaven found out— If they only caught even a single whiff of this…

Aziraphale gulped around a knot in his throat, the floating in his stomach churning and turning into nausea. If anyone found out how he felt about Crawly, now— In the best of cases, he’d Fall.

In the worst— He did not even want to think about it.

“…Why?” he whispered, tipping his head up, squinting in the storm that kept whipping the flooding land. “This is my punishment, isn’t it? This— This is for lying about the sword—“

It had to be. Why would he otherwise even possess the ability to feel so strongly toward a Demon?

(_Because he cares_, a little voice whispered in the back of his head. _Crawly cares when no one does. Crawly is kind, in his own way. Crawly is smart, is witty, is _**_beautiful_**_—_)

He silenced the voice, angrily. No, he shouldn’t think such things. Crawly was a _Demon_. Yes, he approached Aziraphale to talk, and yes, he smiled at him when they meet in passing, and yes, he never actually hurt anyone as far as Aziraphale knew, and yes, he saved those kids—

Held them to quell their fears. Sang to them to heal their souls—

Aziraphale coughed around an hiccup, tears joining his already rain-drenched face. Just thinking about what he saw but a handful of minutes prior was making that warm thing in his chest ignite once more, along a keen pain caused by the understanding that this would, very much, go nowhere.

Because it was his punishment. Because Crawly was a Demon, and for how— Unconventional he might be, he still could not love. He would never love Aziraphale like Aziraphale was now loving him.

(_Are you sure?_ The voice, back once more, asked. _He isn’t supposed to sing in the Language, too. He isn’t supposed to care for children either, but here we are, aren’t we?_)

“Shut up,” Aziraphale groaned through gritted teeth, and stood.

If this was what God deemed his punishment, then he would bear it silently. He rubbed the tears out of his eyes, allowing the rain to soothe the burning, squared his shoulders, and went back inside, dry once more the instant he stepped under the protected lower decks.

And if, in the long days of the Flood, the very lower, darker parts of the Ark found themselves receiving a steady supply of food that seemed to appear miraculously, no one had to know.

—

“Came to smirk at the poor bugger, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale went very still, many things happening inside him. The joy of hearing that voice once more, singing between his ribs in a song that not even the most skilled of choirs could hold a candle to. The longing he seemed to be unable to grow used to. And pain, for the implication of Crawly’s words.

It hurt so deep, the coldness of those words. To discover Crawly thought so low of him. But he knew Crawly had good reasons to.

Aziraphale did not think very highly of himself, either, if he had to be honest.

“Smirk? Me?” he attempted to protest, weak to his own ears.

“Your lot put him on there,” Crawly replied, nonplussed.

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly,” Aziraphale muttered, hoping the bitterness he felt wasn’t transpiring through his words. Not too much, at least.

“Oh, I changed it.”

“Changed what?”

“My name. ‘Crawly’ was not really doing it for me, was a bit too— Squirming at your feet-ish.”

Aziraphale barely held in a smile, feeling a pang of fondness rise along his throat like bile that didn’t burn. He promptly gulped it down. For goodness’ sake, could he not hold himself together for a minute? Crawly spoke to him after a good century and here he was, already feeling like his head was filling up with cotton, wanting to laugh at his jokes—

“You were a _snake_,” he replied, forcing a somewhat reprimanding tone that wasn’t really directed at the Demon in his voice. “So, what is it, now. Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?”

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale blinked, and this time he did not manage to hold back the smile, as he gave a little nod.

_Perfect. Just like you—_

He was saved by the concrete risk of actually voicing that thought by the sound of hammers, followed by more cries of pain, and he promptly minded himself. This was not the moment to— To go all gooe-y inside about _Crowley’s_ presence and his voice and his beautiful hair and _oh good lord he smells like flowers_—

“Did you— Ever meet him?” he asked, trying to find something, anything, to distract himself from the _everything_ that was happening in his chest.

“Yes— Seems a very bright young man,” Crowley replied, sounding utterly sincere. “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”

“…Why?”

“He’s a carpenter from Galilee… His travel opportunities are limited.”

_Oh_, Aziraphale thought softly, closing his eyes for a second.

He thought he couldn’t fall more in love than he already was.

He thought wrong.

—

They met in Rome, and Crowley looked— Despondent, and Aziraphale wished nothing more than to hug him with everything he had. With his corporeal arms, with his wings, with his entire essence— Protect Crowley from everything, and never move again. But he had to do with just inviting him to dinner, and hoarded the little smiles the Demon gave him like a treasure chest kept very close to his heart.

They did not speak for centuries after that, even if Aziraphale couldn’t help himself but check on the Demon, unnoticed, whenever it all just became too much, and he felt like he could possibly go insane if he didn’t at least _see_ him.

They met clad in metal, and moaned together about the dampness of the situation, and then Crowley launched that idea at him.

“Wait, you mean—“ Aziraphale said, slowly.

“You know. You scratch my back, I scratch yours?” Crowley said with a shrug that caused his armour to clang loudly. “I mean, metaphorically. Kinda hard scratching anyone’s backs with all these metallic layers. Or we could, literally, if you want— I don’t even remember when was the last time I managed to get a good grooming done to my wings—“

Aziraphale’s mind shut down for a second, or two, or ten, at the mental images conjured by that sentence. The idea of Crowley showing his back openly, vulnerable, black wings spread— To sink his fingers in those beautiful, silky feathers, find out if they were as soft as Aziraphale has always imagined—

To have Crowley touch _his_ wings—

Maybe it had been more akin to twenty seconds of mind-shutting, because when Aziraphale finally managed to rein himself back in, Crowley looked fidgety.

“…Just an idea,” he was saying, shifting his weight with a clang. “Something to think abou—“

“I’m in,” Aziraphale blurted, and Crowley went very still.

“…You are?” he then asked, clearly incredulous, eyebrows disappearing under the chainmail.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, already regretting his stupidity. This was a bad idea. A royally screwed, terrible, not-very-good idea. “Although I’d suggest we speak about this in a— More private setting.”

“Ah— Yeah, sure,” Crowley agreed quickly, clearly still taken aback. “Tonight? I’ll see you at your camp—“

“Alright,” Aziraphale agreed, fast, and without another word turned around.

Blessedly, no one could see him mouth curse words silently under his helmet.

—

Crowley actually asked him to groom his wings about sixty-seven years into their ‘Arrangement’.

“Got a displaced covert that I can’t reach and it’s driving me insane,” he bemoaned, one night they had too much mead and spent one hour too many laughing together about a thing or the other. “D’you mind?”

_Yes. No. Oh, I _ ** _will_ ** _ discorporate._

Aziraphale forced himself to go detached as Crowley shed his tunic, leaning over with his elbows on his knees, long red hair hanging like a curtain around his angular face as he spread his wings gingerly. The orange of the bonfire danced on the iridescent black of those feathers, and Aziraphale immediately put himself in ‘Heaven Mode’ at the sight.

If he hadn’t, he might’ve done something really stupid. Like sink his fingers in without doing the actual grooming, and lean down to kiss the pale strip of skin visible at the base of Crowley’s neck, and possibly declare the Love he’s been feeling for millennia, now—

So he went in Heaven Mode, which was all business talk, and ‘ah-ah yes good one’, and cold smiles, and absolute detachment to the point of grazing dissociation. He did not say a word as he quickly brushed Crowley’s feathers, getting rid of old residues from his last molt, making sure all the feathers were sticking in the right direction. Once he was done Crowley stretched with a pleased groan, wings included.

“Oh, Angel, that’s so much _better_—“ he moaned, fanning his wings just a tiny bit, causing a dance of orange and yellow to reflect on the iridescence of his inky feathers. “I forgot how nice it was getting that done by someone else. Want me to do yours?”

Aziraphale already fraying grasp on Heaven Mode wobbled dangerously, and Aziraphale swerved desperately to get back on track, maybe a bit too much.

“No, thanks.”

Crowley turned at the icy cold tone, clearly confused, and blinked at him. His expression went immediately guarded, as his wings were tucked away from prying eyes, and he hurriedly dressed again without another word.

Aziraphale had no idea how he must look, he felt cold to even himself. It always happened when he had to spend one too many days in Heaven giving vocal reports, or getting reprimanded for miracle usage, or being punished for a thing or the other— He always felt so away, in those moments, and it took him _days_ to get back in himself.

“Going to sleep—“ Crowley muttered without looking at him, disappearing in his tent.

Aziraphale stood the entire night by the bonfire, feeling unbearably cold.

Crowley never asked him to groom his wings again.

—

He quietly saved Crowley from a smiting that would surely come to him by distracting some of his colleagues -the plague was having everyone working overtime, apparently- as Crowley casually tempted the few that were still trying to help to also take care of those who did not had much, and not just the rich and the powerful, right behind their backs. He saved him from a discorporation in 1456 by stopping a bandit who was about to slit the throat of an unsuspecting, sleeping Crowley, and in 1567, when someone slid him a goblet of poisoned wine. Crowley hadn’t been happy to get the wine snatched from him, and Aziraphale couldn’t exactly tell him the reason in front of the affluent Duke Crowley was trying to tempt in his currently female-presenting corporation, so he put an act, feigning himself too drunk, and downed the poisoned liquid in one go.

It was two birds with one stone, in Aziraphale’s opinion. It gave the Duke a chance to show off to the lady by intimidating Aziraphale to keep his drunken hands off of her, and helped Crowley nudge the temptation forward a bit, _and_ it avoided a discorporation. Well, for Crowley. As for Aziraphale, he managed to hold back the effects of the poison just long enough to allow him to find a nice secluded corner to die in.

The reprimand he received was worth it. It was always worth it, if it meant Crowley did not had to go back to Hell, where they surely gave much heavier punishments for wasting a corporation than Heaven did.

(He was incorrect in this assumption, but he wouldn’t really know that for a long, long time still.)

“Angel, lay off the wine, next time,” Crowley said with a grin when they saw each other, about a decade later, none-the-wiser.

Aziraphale didn’t mind.

—

It was 1601, and Crowley sighed “Yes alright, I’ll do that one, my treat—“ and Aziraphale barely managed not to throw his arms around Crowley’s neck and kiss him senseless. It was 1793 and they hadn’t seen each other in so long Aziraphale thought he might go insane, and when he heard “Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel, only humans do that,” he felt like his human heart could burst in his chest.

It was 1862, and Aziraphale touched a level of despair that was all familiar and all new, in a way.

He knew despair intimately. He’d made a friend in it. It was bound to happen, when you were an Angel that seemed to constantly make mistakes when Angels were supposed to NOT do that. When you were an Angel She would not talk to anymore.

An Angel punished in ways that were crueler than any other punishment Aziraphale had experienced. Punished with _Love_.

He’d been walking arm in arm with despair for a long, long time. Because he loved so desperately much he had to teach himself how to keep that at bay. How to keep it stifled and chained and muffled in the depths of his soul. He’d had the tendency to make things— Happen, the first few decades after he’d fell for Crowley.

He’d see him in the streets, and suddenly all the flowers in a ten kilometres radius bloomed. They’d exchange brief words, and for days birds would sing wherever Aziraphale went.

Crowley would smile, and all the food in the near vicinity tasted now ten times better, all the people forgot their problems and found their pockets full of money, all the children stopped crying and the ill healed miraculously.

It was a dangerous game Aziraphale played, trying to explain _that_ to head office. So he taught himself how to control it. Put a leash, a muzzle, even _hurt_ it, if necessary.

Even if it meant hurting _himself_.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for that moment. For the dread that would grab at his chest like icy claws, when he saw those two, small, simple words scribbled on a ripped piece of paper. All the horrible images conjured by his mind, all the pain that pushed from his insides like impossibly long nails at the mere idea he could be directly involved in this—

That he could cause Crowley’s permanent disappearance with his own hands.

“No,” he managed to bite out over the bile rising along his throat, stiffly giving the note back, but Crowley did not take it.

“…Why not?” he then asked, sounding somehow careful, after long seconds of silence.

“No,” it was all Aziraphale could manage to say. He closed his eyes, knowing the hand he was still holding sideways, to give the note back, was starting to tremble. “I can’t— I can’t, Crowley—“

“C’mon, your office won’t even care—“

“It’s not about that!” Aziraphale snapped, anguished, and when it was clear Crowley wouldn’t take the note back, he crumpled it in a tight fist. “I won’t— I cannot bear the idea of being responsible with— I’m not bringing you a _suicide pill_, Crowley!”

Crowley seemed to flinch, turning around to face him fully, finally breaking the charade of being two men that just so casually happened to stand side by side and look at the ducks.

“It’s— Not what I want that for,” Crowley said, sounding halfway between exasperated and confused. “It’s just— Insurance, if anything goes wrong.”

Aziraphale tipped his head on a side as he felt tears burning up in his eyes. Of course Crowley would want insurance. Their Arrangement, their— Friendship was a dangerous little labyrinth they had to tip-toe their way around, not knowing what would be right behind the next corner, not knowing for how long they could really be able to stretch it before anyone found out—

And Aziraphale— Aziraphale already felt so awfully guilty about that. He knew that, by spending time with Crowley, he was putting the Demon in terrible danger. That Hell would surely punish him gravely, maybe even execute him, if they ever found out about this. It was a guilt that ate him from the inside out, that made him pace in his bookshop and pull at his hair and cry tears that seemed to never end. He hated himself for this, for being a danger to Crowley, willingly and with gusto, and being unable to stop to claim even a tiny scrap of Crowley’s attention whenever the occasion rose.

He hated himself enough, and he was sure that— If he gave in, and gave Crowley the Holy Water, it would be the end of him. That the guilt would eat him alive, would burn him like Hellfire, and leave nothing but a pile of pathetic, ex-Angel ashes behind.

He couldn’t— He couldn’t be responsible for this.

“Aziraphale— Angel, wait!”

He weakly tried to tug his elbow free, still not turning as tears rolled down on two wet tracks on his cheeks. Crowley did not let go.

“I’m serious—“ Crowley said, voice low. “It’s not for me— Well, it _is_ for me, but not in the way you think— I just— Want something to defend myself with, if the need ever rises.”

“…And what if whoever you are defending yourself from manages to take it from you?” Aziraphale whispered, knowing the tears he wasn’t showing would be obvious in his voice. Right on cue, Crowley let his elbow go as if he’d got scalded. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Good day, Crowley,” Aziraphale added, voice breaking fully on the last word, and then walked away.

No one tried to stop him, this time.

—

They did not see each other for one hundred and five years. There were no nazi conspirators to lure him in, as Aziraphale had become a ghost.

Oh, he was very real. As corporeal as he had ever been when on Earth. But he honed his ability to silently command ‘do not look this way’ down to an art form.

He went out and about, do what he must. He walked through trenches and healed those who he could, held the hands of those who he couldn’t. He turned the nightmares of those who still stood in those trenches even long after the end of the war into pleasant dreams. Put the right direction in the mind of a mother in panicked search of a place to safely run from bombs with her children. Made the rationed food that little bit more nutritious and tasty.

Crowley had tried to swing by, every now and then, for the first forty years. But Aziraphale had a keen sixth sense for the Demon he loved, and made himself scarce whenever he’d feel Crowley approach. He tried not to linger on imagining how Crowley must look, knocking on the bookshop’s door, and waiting, only to receive no response.

He tried to convince himself it was for the better, when Crowley stopped trying to come find him entirely, even if it hurt so much Aziraphale was sure his chest would rip open and everything would pour out of it.

It should’ve been for the better. No more Arrangement, no more nights spent drinking, no more longingly looking at something he could not have. It was a good thing, for the both of them. They’d be safe.

Aziraphale might even stop loving, at some point, in a few millennia. Maybe.

But no matter how much he told himself this. The leashed, muzzled, battered beast in his chest howled and thrashed and demanded what it wanted.

And it was becoming harder and harder to ignore it, as the years went.

And then he heard the voices, reaching him through back alleys of a road he’d been standing steadfast even as Soho changed and shifted into a darker, seedy place. The voices became rumors, and the rumors became certainties when he felt a familiar presence nearby.

He watched hidden in the shadows as Crowley got off a sleek black car. He wondered when he got it. There was a sense of love, surrounding it. It was clear Crowley cared for the vehicle very much.

The beast in him howled. _If he can love a car, why not you? Why not you too? He can love you! He can!_

_Maybe he could, but he shouldn’t._ Aziraphale tiredly, patiently reminded the beast, closing his eyes that burnt.

He knew what was Crowley in Soho for. The one thing he wanted.

The one thing Aziraphale had been keeping stuffed in the back of his closet, behind clothes hundreds of years old he was unable to throw away.

He got the water in 1945, when the world was trying to bloom once more after the conflict that shook it, one night when Aziraphale felt himself toe the line of insanity for how much he missed Crowley. He’d gotten out the shop in a desperate, but entirely sober, faltering step, a thermos in hand.

No one paid him any mind when he sunk it in a basin of Holy Water in the nearest church, filling it to the brim, and screwing the cap with trembling hands. He felt it burn slightly when his hand was sunk in the cool liquid, and he did not know if he really felt it or if it was just his overactive imagination reminding him how it would feel for Crowley, if he touched the water.

Maybe he was really going a bit demonic. They all knew the Fallen went down in the blink of an eye, but no one ever said it was the only way to Fall. Maybe it was possible to Fall very, _very_ slowly.

He got the water, and was this close to bringing it to Crowley, so he could see him, so they could speak again, so he would start to swing by the shop once more, just, _anything_— And then snapped back to reason, horrified, and hurried back home, hiding the thermos in a hurry.

It had been there since. And now it seemed to be calling.

Crowley won’t be away long, Aziraphale was sure. He’d wanted the water for a _century_, he’d no doubt not waste time beating around the bush with whoever he was meeting. And humans were humans, how could they suspect a thing? All it would take would be a hand still damp, a cap not screwed tight enough, a bottle breaking… Just one clumsy mistake, and Crowley would be gone.

Aziraphale could not allow this, not even if it meant killing himself with pain.

He went upstairs, took the thermos with shivering hands, and waited.

—

Crowley felt immensely idiotic as he parked his Bentley by the side of the road.

Really, how did he not realize the meeting was being set up _that_ close to the bookshop? Not that it was a problem, technically. It should have not been a problem.

Except for the bitterness Crowley felt, glancing at the familiar face of the shop, with its dumb red paint and dumber name and dumb flat above it where Aziraphale lived while dumbly avoiding Crowley.

Because he _was_ avoiding Crowley. Aziraphale had been avoiding Crowley for over a century. And while Crowley bitterly thought that their friendship had meant something to the Angel, he was not quite as petty as to impose his presence when it was so clearly unwanted. He had tried to meet with Aziraphale for decades, and there were only so many times Crowley could explain to himself the Angel’s absence with a coincidence, before it became clear Aziraphale simply did not want to meet him.

The Angel had always been— Nervous. Fidgety. Anxious, even. Which Crowley understood, because he’d long known Heaven wasn’t all that better than Hell, and at least in Hell people were sincere in their dislike. You knew when someone hated you, because everyone hated everyone, so that made some things easier, in a backwards sort of way.

But Heaven liked to keep appearances. Oh, how they liked it. All cold smiles and congratulations that sounded like insults and ‘good job, but you could have done so much better!’

So, it was no surprise that Aziraphale was always so— Fussy. Always badly hiding guilt for spending time with Crowley, always holding back even when they were having a good time, a flash of something fearful passing in his eyes as he took a step back like a recalcitrant horse. Crowley did not hold it against him, even if it always stung a bit. He knew the Angel disliked the fact that he was a Demon, it was very clear in the way he acted, even if his words said the contrary. It was just the way it was. They were enemies, on paper, and Aziraphale kept a healthy reminder of that in his mind, Crowley was sure.

Maybe Crowley ought to do the same, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He just— Liked being with Aziraphale. When he wasn’t so jittery, when he wasn’t so buttoned up, Aziraphale was such a joy to be with. He was clever and witty and passionate about so many things, like Crowley. Crowley _liked_ him, he liked their friendship, and yes, it did hurt that Aziraphale clearly hadn’t valued it as much as Crowley had.

But such was life, he guessed. So, he walked in front of the bookshop on his way to his meeting, pointedly not looking in its direction. And then did the same, as he came back, climbed into the Bentley—

And felt the presence at his side.

Crowley turned, gaping. Aziraphale sat in the passenger side, eyes pointed forward, a tense frown settled on his pale face.

“…Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, softly astonished.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale replied in a soft whisper, still not turning. “I— Heard voices.”

“Yes, I guess you did,” Crowley muttered, darkly. Why did the Angel wanted to butt his nose in, now, was beyond him. “Look, Aziraphale, you made clear you did not want to stain your hands with this a century ago, and I’m making it so you won’t. Just— Look the other way. You’ve looked the other way hundreds of times, before.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, releasing a trembly, soft breath.

“I can’t— Crowley, it’s too dangerous, the water won’t just kill your body—“

“I’m aware, _Angel_.”

That finally seemed to gain a reaction. Finally made Aziraphale turn toward him. His grey eyes looked like storming skies, as a small, cold smile pulled a this mouth.

“It’s too dangerous,” he repeated, hoarse, as he fished something from his other side. “So, please, just— Call off the robbery.”

Crowley looked down. He could see that Aziraphale’s hands were shivering, as he handed over the ridiculous tartan patterned thermos. Speechless, feeling something instantaneously _complicated_ awake in the depths of his chest, Crowley accepted it carefully.

“Don’t— Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” Aziraphale murmured, sounding on the verge of tears. And, sure enough, when Crowley looked up, there was a thin sheen of wetness making Aziraphale’s eyes glint in the red, semi-darkness of the Soho night.

“I—“ Crowley gaped, unable to explain the conflicting feelings battling in his ribcage. There was shock, and gratitude, and happiness, and an unexplainable sense of warmth, and even a touch of speechless anger and— “Is it— Real?”

“The holiest.”

“But— Angel— After all that—“ he babbled, carefully cradling the thermos. “I— Should I— Say thank you?”

“…Better not,” Aziraphale’s voice was barely more than a whisper, at that point, and it broke on the last syllable. Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale looked back with eyes so huge, and so openly desperate, the tears collecting heavy enough to spill on his cheeks when he blinked.

And Crowley— Crowley wanted nothing more but to reach over and dry those with a thumb, tuck Aziraphale’s golden white curls behind his ear, and do anything, anything at all, if it meant putting a smile back on his face—

Oh.

Oh, _shit_.

Aziraphale gave him a broken smile with a wobbling lower lip, and then turned to get off the car without another word. Crowley couldn’t hear a sound from the outside, once the door had been closed, but he could _see_. He could see the way Aziraphale walked hunched on himself, and the tremors that shook his shoulders when he sobbed as he hurried back to his bookshop without turning.

And it was— Awful. Crowley _hated_ it. Because he knew that not only there was nothing he could do to stop Aziraphale from crying, but also that _he_ was the reason Aziraphale was crying.

It hadn’t been a matter of just— Keeping his hands clean. Aziraphale had been clearly, sincerely pained by the idea of indirectly causing Crowley harm— And despite that, he still went and gave him the water.

And oh, everything made so much more sense, now, didn’t it? Why he spoke with Aziraphale in the first place. Why he searched for him in the crowd. Why he liked being with him so much, and was so happy when Aziraphale spoke to him first, when he accepted his idea and the Arrangement, why he liked it so much when he drank with Crowley and laughed with Crowley and smiled at Crowley and—

“Fuck—“ Crowley hissed, letting his head drop on the backrest heavily. “Shit. Shit shit shit—“

Oh, this was bad news. Really awful news. And such a shitty, not very good idea—

But the seed was there, and Crowley— Crowley was nothing but fantastically good with plants.

—

It took Aziraphale another five years before he seemingly felt ready to face Crowley again. Crowley did not complain. He had a whole lot of shit to deal with, himself.

The little seed had grown in a verdant plant of actualisation. Crowley had examined old memories under a different light, and realized a whole lot of things he’d been blind to.

Namely, the fact that he might’ve been an itty bitty in love with Aziraphale for thousands of years, and hadn’t realized. Stupidity, or denial, he wasn’t sure why, but he knew, now, and it made everything _infinitely_ more complicated. Because one thing was to toe the line of danger with a connection based on friendship, mutual respect, and even a bit of intent to be mischievous, something that could be explained as thwarting and tempting, in a pinch. Another was to be in love with your best friend who is also your worst enemy, technically.

Much harder to explain, that.

So, yes, another five years pause. Acceptable. If painful.

(Crowley had tried to deny to himself the fact that it fucking _sucked_. They hadn’t spoken for over a century, and then Aziraphale just plopped himself in the Bentley, gave him a thermos full of Demon Melter Juice, cried all over him, and then he was gone, leaving behind the truth that Crowley had been desperately loving him for millennia without even realizing. And went on radio silence again. Rude, to say the least.)

(He wasn’t doing a good job at denying himself that.)

Five years and there Aziraphale went, being rude again.

“Anthony J?” he asked, placing himself in the empty chair in front of Crowley and making him almost spit his coffee. “That’s new.”

“It hasn’t been new for more than thirty years, Angel.” Crowley replied, tongue running before his mind could.

And then he would’ve slapped himself, but thankfully Aziraphale seemed not to take it personally. He gave a brief smile, crossing his fingers on top of the table. Crowley cleared his throat.

“From where did you hear it?”

“Oh? Oh, the nice young lady behind the counter— Seems like she fancies you,” Aziraphale’s smile turned vaguely amused. “When I asked her if you were with anyone or I could disturb you she went all red— And her friend interjected with ‘Who, Anthony? Mr. Anthony J. Crowley? He’s always alone, and dark and _mysterious_…’, causing the girl to be even more embarrassed, poor dear.”

He even acted the mawkish tone those words had been surely spoken with, and Crowley found himself laughing, despite himself, before shaking his head.

“Guess it’s time to change coffee shop.”

“Oh, let the girl have her little dreams,” Aziraphale said, airily, before adding, “So.”

“So.”

“Well, I was thinking— We ought to make things easier, you know?”

Crowley blinked slowly, very much on unsure footing, and so he did not reply, choosing instead to take a long sip of his coffee as Aziraphale fidgeted with his ring in a painfully familiar manner.

“I have installed a telephone line in the shop, so if you have one too we might— Exchange numbers? Would make our… Arrangement much more smooth, wouldn’t you say?”

So they weren’t going to talk about the century long avoiding act, or the Holy Water, or the crying, or what a fucking mess Crowley was.

Suited him fine enough.

“Sure. Thought you’d never join us in the modern era,” Crowley said, practical, whipping out a fountain pen and writing his number on a paper napkin, handing it over the table. Aziraphale accepted it with fingers that very pointedly did not brush Crowley’s, and folded it very carefully, putting it in his waistcoat pocket.

“Now, if you could also buy some clothing made in the last fifty years…”

“My clothes are just fine, thank you,” Aziraphale immediately interjected, primly pulling at his bowtie. “Now, dear, I have two tickets for—“

“Sure, let’s go.”

Aziraphale blinked, and then snorted an ungraceful laugh. “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“I’m mortally bored, Angel, anything is fine,” Crowley rushed to say, because saying ‘I missed you so much I’d watch paint dry as long as it is by your side’ did not sound very cool.

“Even if it was the Hamlet?” Aziraphale asked, his mouth curling in a little impish smile and oh— Crowley really had to use all his restraints not to grab the lapels of Aziraphale’s dumb coat to pull him in from the other side of the table and kiss him stupid.

“Satan help me but yes, even if it was the Hamlet,” Crowley sighed, kicking that thought deep down in the recess of his mind. “…It’s not, though, is it?”

With a last, little laugh, Aziraphale stood.

“No, my dear,” he said, clearly fond. “It’s not.”

—

The new footing they found wasn’t much different from the old one, at the end of the day, and the decades rolled into one another until Armageddon approached. But things _did_ change.

Aziraphale decided not to hide things from Crowley, for starters. He’d already been hiding such a giant secret from him, for so many millennia, the mere idea of hiding anything else was exhausting. He showed the book of Agnes to him right away, and was the first he called once he individuated the position of the Antichrist.

He’d been punished with a dead love that for so long had burned, and still burnt him like Hellfire that he harboured no frail illusion God would’ve listened to him, let alone the other Angels.

There was no discorporating, but there had been a rather intense duel with a Duke of Hell to defend Crowley’s life, which, Crowley would testify with a hand over his heart, had been_ the coolest thing ever_ and had left the Demon with a bad case of the vapors in a way not dissimilar from the ladies protagonists of those unbearably cheesy nineteen century romance novels Aziraphale -not so- secretly stashed somewhere in his bookshop. There had also been a screaming match in the Bentley when the M25 burned in front of them and Aziraphale could not believe Crowley had been _so dumb as to really make the highway a demonic sigil—_

Somehow they still made it to Tadfield, and played their part.

—

“…Do you really think this will work?” Crowley asked apprehensively as they stood in front of one another in the -not burnt and then brought back- bookshop.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice. It’s worth at least a try.”

Crowley closed his eyes and finally accepted the hand he was being offered. They both focused, pulling themselves in their formless essences, physical and not at the same time, liquid light that rolled through that contact, brushing one another in passing, and awakening once more on the other side.

The moment Crowley sat himself snug in Aziraphale’s corporation he felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore, like there were chains constricting his chest, and he gaped in search of air he technically not need.

“Crowley? Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s -his own, technically- hands were on his shoulders, keeping him upright. It took Crowley a full minute to get used to the feeling of _binding_ pressing on him from all sides, like invisible ropes.

“Oh, no, is it hurting you?! Swap back! Crowley!”

“I’m fine, Angel—“ Crowley managed to wheeze, carefully pushing Aziraphale’s hands away -being shaken wasn’t helping.- “It’s just— Angel, what the _fuck_?”

Aziraphale blinked, the earnest surprise a strange expression when wore on Crowley’s own face.

“What?”

“How do you—“ it was unexplainable. Maybe Aziraphale didn’t know? Maybe it was an effect of inhabiting an Angelic vessel— But, logically, Aziraphale should’ve also felt something in Crowley’s body, shouldn’t he? Crowley patted at his borrowed chest. He was growing used to the invisible chains, slowly, but it did not make the sense of oppression any less heavy. “How do you _deal_ with this?!”

Aziraphale blinked, hands still hanging mid-air in clear confusion. And then some kind of understanding flashed in the yellow of his borrowed eyes, and he paled a little, glancing down at Crowley’s chest before looking right back up guiltily.

Crowley was already pulling the bowtie loose and open the shirt buttons before Aziraphale could say anything.

“Wait, no, there’s no need—“ Aziraphale tried to stammer, his hands making vague movements, but Crowley was already looking down at the exposed skin of the corporation he was currently inhabiting. Pale hair almost invisible in the middle of his chest could not hide—

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said very, very slowly. “Why do you have sealing sigils tattooed on your chest?”

Aziraphale did not reply, looking remarkably like a wax statue.

“Why do you have _ancient_ sealing sigils tattooed on you, Aziraphale.”

The last question did not sound a question as much as it did a demand for a whole slew of answers. Crowley’s mind was running a mile a minute, imagining every possible terrible explanation. It had to be Heaven’s fault, maybe of one other Angel specifically, the bastards— He did not recognize all the sigils, what could they be sealing? Where there some for other uses? Surveillance? Control?

“…I had them tattooed on myself,” Aziraphale replied, very quietly, and Crowley’s train of thought let out a strident noise of brakes and a crash.

“Excuse me?!”

“I had them tattooed on myself,” Aziraphale repeated, looking to a corner of the ceiling. “I’m— Used to them, so I didn’t think— I’m sorry, if you don’t want to put up with them we can swap back and think of something else—“

“Hold your bloody horses, _what_?!” Crowley snapped, disbelieving. “Why in the cursed world would you put this crap on yourself?!”

Maddeningly, Aziraphale still did not look down. He was clearly very uncomfortable, all tense angles in Crowley’s body.

“There were— _Things_, I couldn’t control,” he started, looking like someone whose words were being pulled out with a dentist claw. “Things that would’ve put me in a very tight spot if Heaven ever found out and— Might’ve been dangerous for you, too, so—“

“So you thought the best solution was to bloody tie yourself in a magical, chest-wide choker?” Crowley interjected, looking back down at the sigils. If they were all for suppressing this— Whatever Aziraphale was talking about, it made sense why it felt so constricting, so uncomfortably tight.

Aziraphale blinked repeatedly, still not looking down, and nodded.

“…For how long have you kept these?”

“I, ah— Applied them about— After the first century after the Flood—“

Crowley’s eyes went very, very wide.

“I had to re-do them a couple of times when I was discorporated, but—“

Aziraphale immediately trailed off when he finally bothered to tip his chin downward and noticed the expression on Crowley’s face.

“…What are they for? What is that you need to seal, Aziraphale?” Crowley whispered, barely managing to keep his voice steady. Aziraphale blinked rapidly again.

“I can’t— I can’t tell you—“

_Snap_.

“Oh, you can’t _tell me_!” Crowley almost bellowed, throwing his arms out. “So what, you agreeing we are on _our_ side now was, what, just humouring me?!”

“No! No, Crowley, I meant it, but— This— I can’t—“

“There’s no this or that! Not anymore!” Crowley groaned, dragging both hands on his face, and his voice had lowered considerably when he spoke again. “Aziraphale— This is it. We have nothing else. No Heaven nor Hell. It’s just us, _you and me_. We have— We have to present a united front, or we’ll never survive this. You have to tell me why would you do this to yourself— Why would you push yourself so _far_. Either you tell me, or I’ll force you back into _this_, and whatever happens once they’ll get us will happen.”

Aziraphale had paled, nervous fists opening and closing. He gaped silently for some seconds, before rubbing a shivering hand over his face.

“…I will tell you,” he finally murmured, sounding unbearably old and tired. “But not now— I can’t do it now. I’ll take them off of you so it’ll be easier—“

“Aziraphale, I _need_ to know—“

“You don’t, but I will tell you. Just— I will tell you once we’ll be on the other side. I promise.”

Crowley fell in a contrite silence. He knew Aziraphale did not make promises willy nilly, but he was still disgruntled by having to wait. He stayed quiet as Aziraphale gingerly put his borrowed fingers over the chest of his own corporation, focusing. The sigils disappeared as if sucked back into the skin, and Crowley felt the chains let go and disappear, releasing a trembly breath once they were off.

“Better?” Aziraphale murmured, gentle, still not looking at him directly.

“…Yes,” Crowley replied, not without a bit of coldness, and not another word was added.

—

“…Swap back, then.”

When Crowley opened his eyes, it was in a pair of far more familiar yellow ones. He blinked slowly to adjust his gaze.

He wanted to be happy about being alive, about the both of them being alive— Hell, he even had some fun scaring the crap out of those multi-winged wankers—

But it was hard to, with this weight on both their shoulders. Crowley turned on the bench, and waited.

Aziraphale was sitting in his usual prim and proper way, both hands on his thighs, eyes closed. He was breathing very slowly and very carefully, as if focusing intensely— Crowley caught out the corner of his eye something squirm somewhere around Aziraphale’s feet, and he leaned down to look.

There were little plants growing and blooming under the soles of Aziraphale’s shoes, through the short grass of the lawn. They squirmed like worms, growing very evidently to the naked eye, buds popping off the stem and opening in a carpet of multi-coloured, delicate field flowers.

“Um—“

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale said, now also looking down at the outline of his feet he’d impressed in the lawn with speedily growing blossoms. His voice sounded very studiously calm. “I managed to hold it back better than I thought, all things considered.”

“What is _it_, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, unable to look away, but he still caught the subtle squirm Aziraphale did at his side.

“It— It is a lot of things, I’d imagine,” he said, slow. “Flowers— Happens a lot, it’s easy, they pick up on that energy very eagerly— Sometimes I make fruits grow, or birds go into mating season a bit earlier than usual— Sometimes it’s just making people feel— Better.”

Crowley blinked. Alright— So Aziraphale seemed to have some latent powers he couldn’t quite control, fair enough, but—

“…Why would it be dangerous to me? Or to you, for that matter? I don’t think Heaven would object to the spread of some— Whatever this is— Doesn’t seems to be— Harmful.”

“Ah, you see, if they knew I’d have to explain, and if I had to explain—“ Aziraphale bit his lips, nervously drumming his fingers on his thighs. “If I had to explain, they would’ve known I’ve been in love with you since the Flood.”

Crowley froze, eyes widening behind the lenses. Feeling like someone had injected quick-setting cement in his spine, Crowley very carefully sat more upright, and turned toward Aziraphale once more. Aziraphale was looking up again, a nervous habit he’d probably never manage to shake off, his eyes wet and his cheeks very red.

“And if they had known that, they would’ve probably destroyed me, or you, or the both of us,” he continued, so forcefully calm it was almost painful to watch. “So it was— Either that, or do what I could to keep it suppressed. You know which option I chose.”

“You— Since— What?!” Crowley finally managed to blurt, and Aziraphale flinched, turning his face away. Crowley did not miss the little, shivering breath he released. “Aziraphale—“

“I’m so awfully sorry, my dear, I know this must be uncomfortable,” Aziraphale replied, voice finally wavering, fingers tightening around the cloth of his trousers. “I wouldn’t have wanted— But I know you wouldn’t have let it go, so I _had_ to tell you. If you want— To pretend I never said anything, I’d understand. I’ll put the sigils back, we could just— Go back to how things were.”

Crowley was still trying to wrap his head around it. Aziraphale— In love. With him???

Since _the Flood_???

And there it was, that little memory he never thought anything of. Children hanging onto him desperately in the bowels of a rocking ark that creaked and whined, only soothed by an ancient song they couldn’t understand. A figure in the shadow Crowley -Crawly, at the time- did notice, and pretended not to. The Angel standing there, quietly, and the moment of doubt in Crawly, the wonder if that was the day Aziraphale would show his true cards, and finally smite him—

But he didn’t. Aziraphale turned, and retreated from where he came from, and then food started to appear, and Crawly had known in that moment that maybe, yes, there was still hope for at least one Angel of the Lord.

And he remembered— The noises of the animals suddenly going restless above their heads, for no apparent reason. The noises happening exactly as Aziraphale turned and ran away—

And now Crowley knew. That had been _the moment_. The moment Aziraphale fell in love with him, and it poured out of him like a wave Crowley could not perceive anymore, but that had still an effect on the world around them.

Aziraphale was so in love with him he couldn’t _control it_. A force so strong that could not be contained if not with the price of hurting himself. And he did that, he put himself in a cage and lived there for millennia, out of fear for both his and Crowley’s safety.

And suddenly it made all so much more sense. How readily Aziraphale had accepted Crowley’s first budding idea for their Arrangement. His caginess, his anxiety, the way he went cold and detached and _terrified_ at the idea of letting Crowley return the favor of grooming his wings. All the smiles and the looks and the little longing brush of a finger. The way he closed off when Crowley asked him to hand over something that could’ve easily destroyed the one being in the world Aziraphale loved so intensely—

The way he looked at him in the Bentley with those desperate eyes full of tears, and the five year long silence following a century long one. The way he came back as if nothing happened.

The way Aziraphale was now standing, clearly tense and clearly desperate for solitude, in what he must perceive as a rejection in Crowley’s stunned silence.

“I’m sorry—“ he said, strangled, his back to Crowley. He started to walk away, stiff, and Crowley jumped on his feet and after him, grabbing him with both arms around his chest.

“No—“ Crowley growled, heart going mad somewhere in his airways. “No, we are not doing this again. You are not going to disappear and avoid me for another century—“

Aziraphale had let out a little gasp when Crowley grabbed him, going as tense as a marble statue. He wasn’t breathing as he stood there, in that hold that wasn’t an embrace.

Crowley decided to skip the ‘attempting to be democratic’ phase and decided to go straight for the ‘taking charge’ phase. He manhandled, not unkindly, the Angel to turn around and face him, looking straight at him, even if Aziraphale pointedly avoided his eyes by tipping his chin down.

“Won’t you at least listen to what I have to say?” Crowley asked, voice trembling just slightly, and when Aziraphale didn’t reply he sighed. He relaxed the hold on Aziraphale’s shoulders and let his palms slide toward his back, guiding him in a real, much softer, hug. “Relax, Angel— Christ, it’s like hugging a statue.”

“I can’t—“ Aziraphale hissed, clearly strained. “I—“

“You don’t have to hold back anymore. You don’t have to hide— It’s _our_ side, remember? You can— With me, you can be _you_.”

“…Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, faint, and then seemed to just— Let go, all at once. He let out a little, strangled moan as he relaxed against Crowley’s shoulder, all softness where there had been nothing but a rock-hard tenseness, before. And Crowley felt it, even if he supposedly shouldn’t have been able to, the trickle of power surging out of the Angel. He just barely felt that warmth, but how truly powerful it had been was clear in the world around them.

Everything went silent for a second, as if the hustling and bustling of modern life took an impromptu vacation. Crowley watched, mouth hanging slack, as the entire park around them bloomed in carpets of flowers, as did the trees, an explosion of colours London had never seen before. He watched as the same happened in all the potted plants he could see like brown little dots in the distance and in the shopfronts. He could grasp an understanding of the real power that was unleashed in the way the birds and the bugs resumed their singing with an harmony out of this world, in the way people just stood and observed with unflinching awe lacking in worry. Just taking the spectacle of the world shifting in front of their eyes without fretting about the impossibility of it happening.

Crowley blinked, closed his mouth before some love-drunk bug could manage to fly into it, and released a strangled noise.

“Yeah, ok, I can see why you felt the need to… Keep this hidden from Heaven,” he managed to say, faint, his cheek pressed against Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale hummed somewhat sleepily, rubbing his own cheek against Crowley’s shoulder. Then he slowly stepped back, looking up at Crowley with a quietly tired, but serene gaze.

His eyes were impossibly gray, with speckles of blue and green and hazel, as if they couldn’t settle on a specific colour, and Crowley could _see_ it in them, as if he needed yet one more proof of what Aziraphale felt for him.

“Are you going to make the entire world bloom if I kiss you, Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked almost catlike. “…I can’t make any promise,” he murmured, hands resting on Crowley’s chest.

“I think I will take my chances,” Crowley muttered, and then he did.

Surprisingly enough, no world-shifting event occurred, although they were both too preoccupied, in that moment, to really notice.

“…I love you too, by the way, if it wasn’t clear enough.”

“Oh, my dear— It was.”

—

As they eased in their comfortable relationship with a new, pleasing twist, it became clear enough the— power trickling wouldn’t be a constant. If only, it had eased increasingly fast and faltered to almost a nothing in only a matter of weeks, while they adjusted in their new cottage in the South Downs.

“Pining is not a good look for Angels,” Crowley declared as they discussed the fact that seemingly no more love-fueled powers leaked out of control, and Aziraphale had, painfully, agreed. “Maybe if you had just— Said something, back then…”

“Yes, and send you running for the hills screaming?”

“First of all, I was stuck on an ark, no hills to run toward, screaming or not. And secondly— Well, I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad.”

“I think I’ll take the millennia of pining over terrifying you with a love declaration and chase you away forever, I mean— We barely _knew_ each other!”

“You know, Angel— I think I’ve fallen in love with you the moment you said you gave that sword away, I was just too— Well, it took me a while to realize.”

“Oh, _shut up_—“

There were still aerial shots of the entirety of London and some of the adjacent areas completely covered in flowers in every tiny scrap of green available. The pictures would probably float around for a long while.

Crowley had saved them in triple copy on his phone, his computer, and a private server, just to look at them from time to time. Aziraphale would very lightly slap him, embarrassed, but then he’d make a flower bloom in their garden.

Just for him.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/NohaVale)


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